


Marco Bodt is EVIL

by chocolateandnerves



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, M/M, Marco just generally being a little shit, POV Second Person, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 01:47:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1369408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolateandnerves/pseuds/chocolateandnerves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jean realizes Marco's devilish nature: </p><p>Okay, so Marco isn't completely villainous, but you're pretty sure he's seriously a little shit to you when he wants to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marco Bodt is EVIL

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm not sure if I want to continue with this or not--I don't quite feel like it's finished? But I don't know what else to do with it, so here. Could be a part of any modern AU, but it wasn't written with anything specific in mind. 
> 
> Feel free to copy-paste this into a word document and change the pronouns if you need to--I know second person can be hard to read sometimes.

The flashing numbers on the TV receiver tell you that it’s nearing midnight, but you had already figured that was the case when your eyelids started to grow heavy. You roll onto your back, the couch cushions shifting individually and you know if you sleep here, you’ll wake up with a kink in your spine. Your sleep-addled brain can’t bring you to care. The TV flashes nonsense at you, and it helps to have something to tune out and fall asleep to. 

You’re nearly out when you hear the muffled scuff of socks on hard wood. Fingers brush your forehead and your eyebrows wrinkle together. You want to sleep, dammit. 

“Jean?” You groan. The fingers move to cup your cheek. “Go to bed, you stubborn butthead.” 

Your eyes peel open to give Marco the dirtiest look your face can manage. He just laughs. 

“You look constipated.” He smiles and it softens your tired frustrations a little. But only a little. You were almost asleep, and you’re not ready to forgive him for rousting you. 

“I do not,” you slur at him. “Why are you waking me up? Is the house on fire?” 

“No,” he admits, pulling his hand away. 

“Then let me fucking sleep.” You shove one arm above your head and start to close your eyes again before you catch a determined expression on Marco’s face. You might be in trouble.

“Jean, you’re going to ruin your back if you keep sleeping on the couch like this.” He’s right, you know it, but you are so comfortable right now. You wave your other hand dismissively, adding a ‘pfff’ for emphasis on your apathy. 

He sighs. You hear him shift and then there is a knee between you and the back of the couch as he settles his weight onto your hips. Your eyes fly open. He looks smug. His hands sit on your ribs, tapping slowly. 

“What are you doing, Mar—“ You don’t get to finish your question, but you get part of an answer as he kisses you softly. His tongue grazes your lips and you swear you can feel your heart beat just a little bit harder. You’re pretty sure that he wants you to pay attention to him, but another part of you says that he’s trying to wake you up so you move like he told you to. You only have the inclination to allow one of those possibilities, so you kiss him back, one of your hands sliding up his flannel-clothed thigh. 

He breaks away, your lips smacking against the air, cold without his there. 

“Please get up?” Dammit. Your mouth twists into a contemplative frown, and he kisses you again, once. You could count his freckles from here. “C’mon.” 

“I can’t get up with you sitting on me,” you point out, and it’s your turn to be smug as he flounders for a second. 

“That doesn’t mean you can fall asleep though.” He smiles, kissing your cheek. Your hands find his hips. 

His fingers creep under your shirt, slow and soft, gently massaging at your abdomen. But what you assumed was a benign touch turns malicious when he digs at your ribs. You arch off the cushions, laughing and spluttering, grabbing at his evading wrists and trying to wriggle out of his grasp. 

“STOP, please, Marc—OH STOP, NO—“ He’s laughing with you, like your forced delight absolutely tickles him pink. Your hands swat at him, trying to push him away, but you laugh so hard it hurts and he is relentless. Then he stops abruptly, hands up in surrender.

“Okay, okay, I’m done, I swear.” He’s still chuckling as you wind down, trying to catch your breath. You eye him suspiciously, but there’s a grin on your face that throws the whole thing off. Damn him. Damn that smile. Damn those freckles and those shoulders and those thighs. 

You don’t realize he’s been leaning forward until his nose brushes yours and your defensive arms touch his chest. You’re leaning up to kiss him, but when your lips touch, you feel an offending hand on your ribs again. 

“Don’t you da—“ 

“I’m not, I promise! I swear.” He kisses your lips once, deciding your cheek and neck are more deserving of his attention. It’s enough to earn some of your trust back. You turn your head without thinking and a breath huffs out of your chest. Your sigh sounds more like a whine to your ears and you hate it, but all you can think about is the way he’s tonguing your throat and the feel of his teeth on your shoulder. 

And that’s when his fingers start in on your ribs again. You gasp, immediately squirming, trying to escape. 

“NO, DAMMIT, MARCO—“ You catch one of his wrists, but he’s giggling and reaching under your armpit with the other hand. “You are EVIL!” you moan at him, but it only makes him laugh harder. Finally managing to trap his other hand between your upper arm and your side, you glare up at him. 

“You are _evil_ and it’s the worst because _you make me like it._ ” Your head hits the couch pillow again and you huff at the ceiling, all of your muscles still tense as you try to catch your breath for the second time. He’s still laughing, pulling his arms toward his body to loosen your grip. Against your better judgment, you let him go. His hands rest on your stomach again, feeling you heave and stutter with intermittent, embarrassing giggles. 

“I’m sorry…,” he manages between breathless chuckles. “I can’t—you have the best laugh. I can’t help wanting to hear it.” 

That sort of stops you, because if you were being frank, you hate your laugh. It’s weird, a kind of wheezing, breathy chuckle that bounces around in your lungs. Marco’s laugh is a pealing sound that fills empty rooms and makes children smile—and if that makes you a child, you don’t really mind.


End file.
